


Runnin'

by LionsandTrolls (alfaaz)



Category: Skulduggery Pleasant - Derek Landy
Genre: Adam lambert - Running, Also slightly wrong i s'pose, F/M, I dont fucking know - Freeform, I just kinda went with it, I mean cops, Post-Canon, Skul also crawls on roads bc he's cool like that, Skuls in love with Val pass it on, Vile and human skul make cameos, eh, flashbacks included, kinda shitty tbh, loosely based off of Adam Lambert's Running, metaphorically, nah man it's cool tho she loves him too, not really a songfic tho, nothing to see here folks, parts do not follow specified canon, post-TDOTL, skul thinks a lot, sort of, spoilers for DB and slight for tdotl, that's basically it, valduggery but I guess platonic?, valduggery yes valduggery, why do i bother with posting shite, y'know cause a 400yr old skeleton is just casually pining for a girl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-10
Updated: 2015-09-10
Packaged: 2018-04-15 00:43:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4586490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alfaaz/pseuds/LionsandTrolls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Save me,' he whispered to the air, to her phantom presence. Because he was falling, falling back down into the abyss he'd crawled out of centuries ago. He couldn't seem to breathe, couldn't seem to function. He couldn't seem to be right. Not without her.</p><p>-----</p><p>It was happening again, the strangely twisted road of his life spinning him back around to its start. Now he was crawling on the path to her, crawling to her. The one person who could save him. Save him from falling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Runnin'

 

 _He raised_ _the glass slowly, up to his lips, hand trembling. He was shaking all over, drenched in blood. How has this happened? He'd.. he'd been angry. That's what had happened. Yet again. How had it gotten this way? It had all been perfectly all right that_ evening, _even. Now dead bodies were littered around him. The stench hadn't had time to set yet, and it'd take at least a day more for the people who passed by the shabby pub muttering disdainfully to notice. Then, by God, would it reek.  
_

_He squeezed his eyes shut, throwing back the whole glass in one shot. He could feel it_ burn _its way down his throat and settle in his stomach. His other hand's grip on the bottle loosened, and he set it down on the counter, or tried to. The force was too much, and the bottom of the bottle smashed to pieces when it collided heavily with the counter. The bartender would've had a fit._

 _The shrill crashing sound woke up the little voice in the back of his head, and he_ snapped _. Furious, he picked up the chair and flung it, destroying it entirely, closing his eyes as the splinters hit him straight on the cheek, cutting him open. He opened his eyes and briefly noted the blood on his cheek. And couldn't help a smile, as he grabbed the other stools and did the same. The bottles neatly arranged behind where the bartender would've been standing (but was lying ten feet away, dead dead_ dead _) were all swept up onto the ground, in a hellus symphony of crashes and the dripping of liquid, drenching him in the sharp tang of alcohol._

_He knew he was breaking, a part of him did. He was drowning, sinking deeper and deeper into a prison of his own making. He was going down, down and down._

* * *

 

His phantom heart thrummed inside his chest, long since barren of flesh. He knew what he was after. Or had. Death and destruction. Winning wars. But maybe not. Maybe not this time. He'd been there, here, _everywhere_ in his long, _long_ life. He'd seen nearly everything. Nearly. More than once. In his own life, though, he'd only been in love once. Now he thought back to the things he'd seen, twice or thrice or once. He'd had enough time, he needed to realize.

His life was a circle, and now it was back to the start of its cycle. It was spinning back around. He was crawling now, hoping for any sort of help, for someone to _see_. He was going - _crawling_ , would be a better word- back down the road he had before, when he'd had flesh.

'Save me,' he whispered to the air, to her phantom presence. Because he was falling, falling back down into the abyss he'd crawled out of centuries ago. He couldn't seem to breathe, couldn't seem to function. He couldn't seem to be right. Not without _her_.

Perhaps because he was running, as he'd always done. Running, running away from the memories. The nightmares. He had always run, and always would. Running away from one thing, mostly.

His heart. Metaphorical, of course. He didn't possess a real one. Not anymore. But the feeling, that ache? That ache of a love which would and could never be returned? He wasn't able to run from that, despite him always, always, running from his heart, or the empty space which served as one. 

* * *

 

_He'd go through the same routine. Round and round, same cycle. Kill people, torture people. Kill people, torture people. He'd become addicted to the numbness which washed over him when he did. It made people clearer, it seemed to give him back a sight which had blurred due to the living._

_He'd lived in a constant cold, the armor wasn't warm and had no reason to be. He didn't posses flesh, after all. Nor_ feel _. And the armor itself reveled in death. Alongside him, of course._

 _Through the highs, where Lord Vile was at his greatest, at his_ deathliest _. Then the lows, where the Lord had been starving,_ aching _for something to kill._ Needing _to kill. The Necromancers had promised him death, and he wasn't getting it. He was getting tired. He was disgusted with the waiting. Soon, they'd said. We'll get to the Passage soon. They'd lied. He'd killed them. Killed them all._

_Back to the highs. Mevolent. The killings. Oh, God they were as crisp and as wondrous as any drug. He was, as had been said, addicted. But Skulduggery had wanted another kind of fix, knowing the damage Lord Vile was doing to the tattered remains of his own soul. This damage was damning him to the eternal gates of hell, down, down and down._

* * *

 

His nonexistent heart continued to thunder as he stood in front of her door, as she opened it and he saw her. Her beautiful, beautiful face. Those onyx brown eyes. Oh, how he wanted to tell her. He'd been standing here for her, for five -nay, twelve?- years. He's been waiting for someone like her his whole damned life. He'd seen a lot of things repeatedly. Nearly everything. Love, though. That was another thing. He'd only been in love twice. Once, really. Maybe it was time for him to realize.

It was happening again, the strangely twisted road of his life spinning him back around to its start. Now he was crawling on the path to her, crawling to her. The one person who could save him. Save him from falling. Valkyrie Cain. And she herself had been running, running running.

So had he. Running. Running. Running, from his feelings, his heart. It was wrong, of course. But fate has a way of spinning things back 'round.

* * *

She smiled. And God, did he feel so damned _alive_. He was coming alive. Waking up, from the haze of darkness during her absence. Living. A dead man finally living, all because of a girl who had been the _cause_ of so much permanent death. Dead. Deaths. Oddly fitting.

The life he'd always considered a dream after his return? A life with the possibility of love. It was time. To wake up, and to live. He'd been standing right here on her doorstep for what seemed like his entire life. And she's launched herself on him, hugging him so tightly he thought his old, old bones had let out an audible creak. His heart -if he'd had one, that was- would've been beating in his chest so fast the movement might have caused a significant earthquake.

He'd seen it all, and now maybe it was time for her to realize. Fate had led him in a circle, and it was, just maybe, time. "I love you, too." he whispered under his breath -figuratively speaking-, just enough for her to hear. And she stiffened against him, and his insides lurched in horror and then it's like a blessing, a good omen from the universe or whatever gods rule it after years and years of the worst kind of omens, like the Person Upstairs was settling a personal score.

"Good. But, frankly, you're at least five years too late." A hug tightened.

And that's that, and that's it. Because, honestly, they both know they'll probably never talk about this again. It'll simply be an underlying aspect of their relationship, a fact known but not acknowledged. Because they both were runners, and neither ever actually faced their heart. Or feelings.

That was what they were, and what they would always do. Run. Keep running, running, running running and running. Running from their hearts.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Deeper pitch version of the song, remember. Also known as the 'Jensen Ackles" version, though not actually sung by said person. It's heaven, believe me.


End file.
